I Am Born of the Elements
by Vivi Marius
Summary: Air. Water. Earth. Fire. The four elements have given balance to the world for centuries. Can two benders find the same balance in their relationship?


John had been normal, until about five years old when his sister Harry had pushed him off the pier in Islington. He had, of course, fallen deep into the ocean to the screams of his parents. His mother had jumped in after him, finding him quickly and then waterbending them both back towards shore. She had bent the water out of his lungs and John had started to breathe again. His mother had cried over him, and John had dazedly waterbent the tears off of her face.

That was how his mother realized that John had inherited her power, so soon he was signed up for waterbending classes at the local community center. John had worked hard trying to master his power, and his mother managed to get him into the International Waterbending Institute for his secondary school years. So John got sent off to Antarctica and the North Pole, then to Indonesia and Japan and Hawaii. He mastered each concept put before him, though he was most drawn to healing. So once he graduated from IWI with his waterbending license and mastery, plus an International Academic Degree cum laude, John returned to England and promptly entered medical school.

St. Bart's was like a dream. He was able to combine his smarts with his bending and actually do something productive. John felt as if he was the closest to being fulfilled as he had ever been. He knew well, though, that something was missing. He yearned for the days not too long passed of scaling glaciers, ice surfing, sneaking bottles of alcohol out of bars. He missed the action, the constant thrum of adrenaline in his system. Which was why, as soon as he got the little Dr. in front of his name, John signed up to be in the army.

It seems stupid now, looking back on it, but John wanted to be in the army because his father had been. Which was how he ended up stationed in Afghanistan, a hot, dry desert where not even his waterbending would help him. John did manage to heal with waterbending from time to time, but it was difficult. So much of bending depends on the conditions around a master and the person's own strength. Fourteen months into his second tour didn't give John any leeway in either direction, which was how he suddenly found himself shot and bleeding out on the desert sand as a full moon watched overhead.

Through the haze of pain, John heard the voices of his old masters. _Seventy per cent of the human body is water...Throughout history there have been several sadistic waterbenders that delve into blood...Bloodbending is illegal, and for good reason...Bloodbending can crush organs...Bloodbending opens yourself up to madness...Bloodbending causes only pain and hurt._ John had literally nothing left to lose, so he bent his own blood back into his body.

The masters were all right, of course. It hurt like hell, and John screamed with the agony of it. He almost thought he had stopped his own heart, but then the continued pain reminded him that he had to be alive. He was quickly becoming weak from the effort. John lost concentration, stopped bloodbending, and looked for something else to bend. He couldn't, and in a frenzy he tried to bend the Moon.

John heard the Goddess _laugh_.

She must have sent help, because the next thing he remembered, he was waking up in St. Bart's. He tried to heal himself, but the angle was awkward and they hadn't actually removed the bullet that had splintered throughout his shoulder yet. John knew his pension was small and he either needed to move home or find a flatshare, but he seriously doubted anyone would want a roommate who woke up screaming about the desert, Moon, and blood all the time.

Until he met Sherlock Holmes.

And really, John had to be mad to decide to live with the airbender. Not because he was an airbender, no, of course not. But because Sherlock Holmes saw everything, pushed it together in a likely piece of a person, and told you about it. He was terrifyingly spot-on most of the time, which was what made it so challenging. Sherlock didn't understand things like social niceties, or personal space, or knowing when to shut up.

And yet, he was still a good man. He helped the police, partly because he preferred unraveling puzzles, but John saw the hidden spark in his eyes whenever things ultimately turned out well. John saw how Sherlock acted tough and hid everything he thought unsavory below a veneer of cruelty.

John saw how thoroughly Sherlock devoted himself to meditation.

That was probably the hardest for John to deal with. When Sherlock was cruel, the whispers followed him: "How could an airbender be so cut off from the world?" And it was so completely false that it practically hurt John to hear it. Sherlock had devoted himself to the study of spirit, of energy, _of life_, and no one seemed to realize it.

And maybe it was because John had seen a glimpse of that man that he felt compelled to shoot the cabbie and save his stupid life. Or perhaps because John was a doctor and a soldier; killing to save. Or maybe he had been touched with Moon Madness that night as he bled on the sand.

No, no, scratch that. It was definitely the Moon Madness. Because about two months after moving in, John realized he was falling for Sherlock Holmes.

And really, there was nothing as stupid as that. First of all, John wasn't gay. And second of all, Sherlock was _Sherlock_. He was married to his work, he was a whirlwind to contend with, and he would bloody deduce it in about two seconds.

Which was why John had been glad at first, when they happened on the Blind Banker case, as he had called it. When Sherlock was on a case, all of his thoughts were on that case and there was no room left over for anything else.

They didn't even have a day of downtime between the Blind Banker and when Moriarty started to terrorize London.

What made John livid about it was that Moriarty was playing with Sherlock's sense of responsibility as an airbender. Airbenders dealt with breath; Moriarty deliberately taunted Sherlock by putting it on his head that five people will stop breathing if he didn't solve the puzzles dangled in front of him.

The first one is easy. A car, a pint of blood, a chat with the wife and Sherlock had it: _Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Columbia_.

The second is just as simple for Sherlock, who is apparently working two cases at the same time. Two hours watching telly, a trip to Connie Prince's house, and a trip to the morgue where they had to deal with Molly and her boyfriend Jim: _Raoul de Santos, the house boy, botox._

The third is slightly harder, simply because Sherlock barely knows about the sun and moon, and then it's only for spiritual purposes. But Sherlock figures it out with just two seconds to spare: _A fake Vermeer, the Van Buren Supernova appearing in 1848_.

This is where things go wrong.

Because the old woman on the other end starts to describe Moriarty's voice, and Sherlock tells her to stop, begs her to, even, but she doesn't and the phone cuts off. Her explosives had detonated in her flat, which killed eleven other people. Sherlock hides it, but John can see how he has to force the emotions away and out of his system.

The fourth is personal. The death of Carl Powers, the waterbending boy who had a fit in the pool and drowned. Sherlock draws his time out again, working on his other case and waiting to post: _FOUND! Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinim toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St._

Then it's quiet. Despite the five pips that started this whole ride, there is no other incoming case. Hours pass, day seeps into night and John can't find anything right to say to Sherlock about this whole mess. So instead, he heads out for a walk.

This is where things go from bad to worse.

John gets jumped and knocked out, and when he comes to he's at a pool and in a vest of explosives with a familiar voice in his ear, forcing him to be his puppet. He has no choice but to go out and trick Sherlock, even for that second, and he can see the hurt across his friend's face. John doesn't have a choice but to stay still as the laser sight appears on his chest. John doesn't have a choice but to watch and wait for his opportunity as Sherlock and the voice talk. And the voice turns out to be Jim, Molly's gay boyfriend from Bart's. Jim is James Moriarty, consulting criminal.

"No one ever gets to me," Moriarty says over John's shoulder. "And no one ever will."

Sherlock flips the safety off and cocks the gun. "I did."

"You've come the closest," Moriarty says airily, as if he couldn't be bothered with the fact that a loaded gun is aimed at him and he doesn't have a chance of escaping it. "And now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now!" Moriarty sing-songs to Sherlock. John can see Sherlock's jaw tighten minutely. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid, just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off. Although I have loved this, this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died," Sherlock interrupts, and John can see those souls laying heavily upon him.

"That's what people DO!" Moriarty explodes, making John jump, but Sherlock instead shakes his head.

"I will stop you." Sherlock promises, absolute disgust in his voice now.

"No you won't," Moriarty replies nonchalantly.

Sherlock's eyes slip over to John's. They breathe together for a moment, even with a meter in between them. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asks.

Suddenly Morarity's right in his ear again, though this time he's over John's shoulder as well. "You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead."

John clenches his jaw and nods, so Sherlock thrusts a memory stick towards Moriarty, who laughs, strides in front of John, takes it, and throws it in the pool. John's heart sinks with it; they just lost whatever bargaining chip Sherlock thought they had. "I could have got those plans anywhere!" Moriarty dismisses, having a laugh at them both.

John doesn't second guess himself, he just lunges forward and wraps his arms around Moriarty. "Sherlock, run!" he shouts, but Sherlock, instead, stays put as Moriarty continues laughing. John's eyes widen in horror as a laser sight appears on Sherlock's forehead.

"Rather shown your hand there, Johnny boy," Moriarty taunts as John releases him. He backs up, and watches the laser sight go back to his chest. It's stupid and frustrating, but John knows he can't do anything. He considers bending, but there is no way to stop a bullet. Perhaps Sherlock could, but they can't figure out a plan right now. And bloodbending is just out of the question, even for a criminal like Moriarty.

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?" Moriarty asks after straightening himself up.

"Oh, let me guess, I get killed," Sherlock replies, sounding absolutely bored.

"Kill you?" Moriarty asks, genuinely offended at the idea. "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, some day. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I will burn you." Moriarty lifts his hand, letting the both of them see the burning flame dancing around his fingers. "I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

Sherlock's voice is hard as he replies. "I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true," Moriarty taunts, and Sherlock's eyes slide to lock with John's again. John blinks a few times, unsure of what he just heard. "Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat."

"What if I was to shoot you now, right now?" Sherlock asks conversationally, as if he just asked Moriarty what happens when you touch something hot.

Moriarty considers the question for a moment before answering, "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. Cos I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit…disappointed. And of course, you won't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

Moriarty sighs and walks away, down the corridor right in between John and Sherlock. Sherlock follows his path with John's gun as he says, "Catch you later."

Moriarty's taunting words of, "No, you won't!" are lost as the door shuts. Immediately, Sherlock is on John, ripping the bomb off of his chest and slinging it across the pool tiles.

John is trying to get his attention. "Sherlock…" _Are you okay?_ "Sherlock…" _What the hell just happened?_ "Sherlock…" _Am I really your heart?_

"Are you alright?" Sherlock demands, and John nods, though he's panting as if he just ran a five-k. He falls back against the stall as Sherlock runs out, trying to find Moriarty. It's only another second before Sherlock is back, shaking his head and glaring after his new arch-enemy. "What you did," he starts as his gaze falls back to John.

"Sorry boys!" Moriarty's sing-song voice interrupts. John stands, but lasers—too many to count—are jumping across Sherlock's body and his. "I'm so-o-o-o changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't."

Sherlock looks to John, and John nods. He is ready for their next move, and for once, he and Sherlock are perfectly in synch.

"I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!" Moriarty continues with a smirk.

"Probably our answer has crossed yours," Sherlock replies, turning and leveling the gun at the explosives. Moriarty shakes his head, clearly amused, clearly disbelieving, and that's when Sherlock shoots.

Times slows down. Sherlock bends the bullets away from them both as John bends the water from the pool around them, protecting them from the flames, which vaporize the water immediately. It turns out that the bomb was more blaze than boom, because Moriarty is still standing, as cool as a cucumber and not so much as an ember on his suit even though everything around them is burning. He laughs as he bends wicked green fire at them. Sherlock steps around it and John jumps into the pool, instantly freezing a platform of ice for himself.

Moriarty keeps them both at a distance, even though John is crashing waves over him and Sherlock is trying to slice him in half with air. Sherlock is jumping, trying to force Moriarty back into his own flames, but it isn't working. John leaps behind Moriarty, rolls onto the tiles, and stands back up.

In the second is takes for John to complete the move, Moriarty has Sherlock in a choke hold, about to stuff a large, green fireball down his throat.

"Come on, Johnny boy," Moriarty laughs as Sherlock struggles. "What will it be?"

John falters for a second as the world burns orange and green around him. If he and Sherlock are going to survive, they need to get out now before the building collapses. John has no choice, none at all.

_Please, Goddess, give me the strength I need to protect the man I love_, he prays. And he can feel it course through his body, so painful that he has to get it out. John launches the power at Moriarty, who is shouting in surprise as his arms release Sherlock. Sherlock is panting heavily as he steps away from the criminal, eyeing John with interest. John forces Moriarty to the floor before reaching inside to his heart.

He has no idea how to do this, but the Goddess does. She squeezes Moriarty's heart and he screams with the agony of it. John falters, but the Goddess doesn't. She presses harder, and Moriarty is consumed by his own fire, splaying it outwards from his body.

John is aware of searing pain, and then nothing.

He's fairly sure he's just landed on concrete. He's coughing, hacking really, trying to expel the smoke from his lungs. There's a hand against his chest, and then the uncomfortable pressure is released and he can breathe easily again, though his skin feels as if it's on fire. John winces as he looks over to Sherlock, the pool burning in the background. "Are you okay?" he asks.

Sherlock nods. "Should be asking you that question. We...we need to get home."

"Police?"

"Here in a minute," Sherlock replies, laying down on the concrete of the parking lot. When the police do arrive, it takes quite a lot of skill on Sherlock's part to deflect their questions and insist on being taken home and not to the hospital. John is grateful, because he's in a lot of pain and literally just needs a cool bath to set himself straight. Finally, Sherlock manages to get one of the Sergeants to take them home, though John needs to be half-carried to the cruiser. Sherlock is practically vibrating in the seat next to him as he demands a faster pace.

Once they get home, Sherlock uses his airbending to lift John into the flat, up the stairs, and into the bathroom. John is set down on the cool tiles, so unlike the ones at the pool, as Sherlock draws John a bath. Once the taps are running at a good temperature, Sherlock starts tugging off the charred remains of John's clothing. John's in too much physical pain to be anywhere near excited about this, even as Sherlock divests him of pants before airlifting him into the tub.

John sinks under the water completely. He pulls the power inside of him, letting the tide take over his body and heal him. He can see the silver glow of the healing become brighter, stronger than it ever has been before. It barely takes him a minute to complete the healing as opposed to the several it would normally take for such damage.

John resurfaces without a gasp, though he is quite tired. He still grabs Sherlock's hand and dips it into the water, quickly healing Sherlock as well, who is much better off. Sherlock nods his thanks before draining the tub and disappearing for a few minutes, coming back with a change of clothes for John. He leaves them and goes into his own room. Regardless, John slides the water off of himself, dresses, and walks out of the bathroom. He's too tired to make it up the stairs, so he simply enters Sherlock's room.

Sherlock's changed into his own pyjamas and slid under the covers, leaving the side closest to the door pulled down for John. John smiles and lays down, letting his eyes close. Sherlock tugs the covers up and over him. There's a pause before Sherlock leans down to brush his lips against John's own.

"We'll talk about all this in the morning," John promises, not opening his eyes. He hears Sherlock sigh before he slips into sleep.

When John wakes up, he knows he's missed morning by a long shot. Sherlock's bedroom, which faces west, is now filled with sunlight. And when John rolls over and looks at the clock, it's half five. He groans and rubs his face, thinking, _I want to go back to sleep!_

Until, he realizes, he doesn't. That's pretty unusual for him. Healings commonly take him a good two days to catch up on, at least ones as major as last night. And right now, he's feeling positively...chipper. Well, starving, but still fantastically good.

John levers himself out of bed and enters the living room to find Sherlock giving his statement to Lestrade. He bypasses them to go into the kitchen and start himself a proper fry-up for breakfast-or dinner, whatever. As he cooks, he calmly listens to Sherlock's version of the story: they fought with Moriarty and were winning, until he went crazy-crazier?-and burned himself up, literally and figuratively. Then Sherlock grabbed John and airbent them out of the building. Once Sherlock is done, John sits down to eat and corroborates Sherlock's story, adding in the bit about getting kidnapped off the street and waking up in the changing stall at the pool with Moriarty's voice in his ear. Lestrade nods, thanks them, and leaves to the relief of both men.

"What happened last night?" they both turn and ask each other.

John sighs and leans back, figuring he has the most explaining to do. "I...I bloodbent," he says softly, watching Sherlock carefully.

"It wasn't a full moon," Sherlock responds.

"No, it wasn't," John agrees. "Look, I know you don't think that gods and goddesses exist, alright? But I asked the Moon Goddess for help last night and she, I don't know, worked through me."

Sherlock is silent for a few moments, obviously turning this idea over in his mind. "Your eyes glowed silver. Like when you heal," he finally offers. "And now your bending is stronger."

It's not a question, but John still answers. "Yes, it is. I feel much more powerful."

"Bloodbend me."

John stares Sherlock down. "No."

"You know I won't get you arrested. Just bend me."

"Sherlock, I'm not worried about jail, I'm worried about you. It's excruciating, to be bent like that. The first time I did it, I was trying to keep the blood in my body when I got shot. It hurt so much just to do something simple that I ended up having nightmares about it. Not to mention, bloodbending opens you up to Moon Madness," John explains calmly. "I don't want to become that tied to the phases of the moon, thank you very much."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, cross about being denied. John just shook his head. "Now, my turn," he says, leaning forward in his chair. "Why did you kiss me last night?"

Sherlock looks away, and it's such a textbook reaction that John is momentarily thrown by it. "I didn't think you would remember," he says softly.

"But that's not why you kissed me," John presses.

"No. I kissed you because I...wanted to," Sherlock admits, his hands tightening on the armrests of his chair. "If you don't feel the same, that is fine. I suspect you'll want to move out and find another flat. Mycroft could arrange a good hospital job for you somewhere along the coast. Or perhaps the territories, even; I believe you'd like the Falklands since you studied near there-"

"Sherlock, shut up," John says fondly before getting up and standing in front of him. "I wanted to kiss you, too."

"You...did," Sherlock states flatly. In answer, John gently tugs Sherlock up to standing. He slid his fingers into Sherlock's hair and kissed him. The kiss is chaste, but affectionate and sweet. John feels Sherlock relax into the kiss and wrap his arms around John's waist. John takes this as encouragement to break into a hundred little kisses, just feeling the way their lips press and mold against each other's.

And then he feels Sherlock's tongue trace his lips and he opens them automatically, groaning as his tongue and Sherlock's intertwine. He presses closer, leaning into the sharp angles of Sherlock's body. John's hands slip under Sherlock's pyjama shirt, needing to press against the soft skin underneath. Sherlock returns the favor eagerly, scratching and smoothing over each new centimeter under his fingers. John can feel Sherlock growing hard against him, and groans as he responds in kind.

"John, please," Sherlock pants out as he pulls away. "Bedroom?"

"Oh, God, yes," John breathes in reply, pulling Sherlock back in for kisses and letting Sherlock lead them both his bedroom. Once John kicks the door shut behind him, there's no slow undressing and reverent kissing. The physical need for skin-on-skin contact supersedes everything else, so they both strip out of their pyjama clothes and simply admire for a moment until Sherlock lays back across the bed.

John crawls on top of him, pressing against him. Both of them moan at the sensation before John lines up and presses their cocks together. They work their hips together, panting as the sweat slowly accumulates across their bodies. John licks one of Sherlock's nipples and he groans, shuddering amazingly beneath John. Sherlock's gasping as he says, "John, I need you to fuck me."

John can almost feel his heart stop at the request, but he nods eagerly. Sherlock twists and gets lube and condoms from the drawer in his bedside table as John continues to kiss as much of Sherlock's skin as he possibly can. Sherlock forces John up and coats his fingers with lube before spreading his legs. John gently strokes Sherlock's cock for a minute before he starts preparing Sherlock. John's a doctor, he's done prostate exams, so he knows in a vague, medical way what to do. He works Sherlock open with one finger, and then two, lightly brushing against Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock jumps and groans at the same time, which just makes John smirk and do it again until Sherlock is pleading with John that he's ready.

He slides on the condom and adds more lube, then positions himself and slowly pushes in with a groan. Once he's all the way in, John pauses to let Sherlock adjust. When Sherlock nods, they quickly find a good rhythm as their hands continue to play over each other's skin. Sherlock strokes himself as they speed up, both of them desperate for release. They soon reach it, Sherlock first and then John following him.

John slides out after a minute and disposes of the condom while Sherlock cleans himself up. They both come back together, curling up and watching each other in the fading sunlight. "Aren't you supposed to be having some sort of sexual identity crisis right now?" Sherlock finally asks.

John laughs a little bit. "Nope. Took care of that about a week ago when we were trying to find Soo Lin," he admits, and Sherlock smiles.

"Good, so we can skip past all that nonsense and go straight into being in a relationship," Sherlock says, as if that settles everything.

John lightly traces Sherlock's side, idly bending the sweat across his back. John's rewarded with Sherlock's gasp. "A relationship it is," John agrees, leaning in to kiss Sherlock.


End file.
